All is Fair with Lies and War
by Faye M.A
Summary: When a feisty little girl becomes part of the Asgardian palace norm, the young Trickster isn't quite sure how to respond... A series of anecdotal oneshots that span the centuries. Takes place in the same universe/canon as my "Desperado" story. Rated T to be safe.
1. Of Girls and Swords

**Hello lovely readers! I seem to recall promising a LokiXSif-centric compilation of oneshots at the end of "Desperado." Well, I haven't forgotten! I just wanted to finish it before posting it. :-) I may add more to it later, but so far, it's as done as it's going to get for the moment. On that note: if at any time you have ideas for another oneshot to add to this compilation, PM me! If I like the idea, I might just write it (and credit it to you)!**

 **This series is meant to take place in the same universe as "Desperado." So far, the chapters are in chronological order. That might become disrupted if I add more to it, but I'll always do my best to let you know when in the timeline the new scene takes place. If you haven't read "Desperado," you might have a tougher time following some of the later stuff. Because my universe is so different from the current Marvel universe (because I had written it prior to Thor II being released), my story is very different from the film canon.**

 **I believe that's it for now! Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Of Girls and Swords**

Loki could seldom recall a time when Sif Tyrdottir had not been present in the palace. Perhaps this was because he was so young that he could only remember about half of his life anyway. Or perhaps it was because she was a three-foot-tall gale-force-wind that ruthlessly demanded the attention of everybody within a fifty foot radius. Either way, few days without her were ever logged in his memory.

She was of noble birth, making her a welcome addition to the palace. Her father being close friends with the Allfather, Sif was one of the few children allowed to play with the princes. Thor, bigger than most boys his age already and the perfect, characteristic representation of the Aesir in appearance, had been all too willing to accept the little girl; his smaller brother, darker in every way save for his fair skin, however, hadn't been so quick.

"I just don't like her," Loki always said with a shrug when asked about the audacious, blonde-headed girl.

Sif, on numerous occasions, had made it very plain that she felt the same way about him. At first, she had been tentative – a tongue stuck out here and a stomp of the foot there. After a couple years, though, she began to grow bold. Then, nobody was safe.

When unprovoked, she was placid as any other girl, if significantly less proper. When upset, she was sharp as the very edge of steel, biting and snapping at any who dared to defy her – this child so small that she could not even push open the heavy palace doors without assistance, no matter how hard she tried.

Sometimes, Frigga would watch the girl play with her sons from her balcony, smiling to herself when Loki would say or do something (the shape and nature of which varied, depending on his mood) to prod her. Secretly, she was proud of his gumption; it hadn't manifested itself in him immediately, and she was glad to see that he was beginning to grow to possess some of her prized wit. She could hardly wait to witness how he would one day turn a phrase, make an argument, or play a trick. Now, however, he was learning. Testing the waters of trickery, and Sif was the perfect model for it.

Loki still maintained that he wasn't fond of the girl, though his actions were slowly betraying that as a lie. He was too young to fight the gleam in his eyes whenever she rose to his bait, lashing out just as he had hoped and giving him the show he wanted. Often, this form of entertainment carried a heavy toll, sometimes in the form of bruises wrought by Sif's tiny hands.

Now, they were old enough to play with wooden swords. "Just like the real warriors," Thor said, eyes aglow. At first, the princes had been the only ones to have swords, and Sif had crossed her arms in a huff until Thor had given her a stick to use.

In her mind, that stick became the deadliest of weapons whenever she picked it up. Sometimes, it was a sword, and later it would become a bow for imaginary arrows, only to become a spear at the last second in the pretend battle, impaling Loki and Thor both. She always bore a preference, however, for some sort of double-bladed weapon that Loki swore did not even exist. "Then I shall have the smiths make one special," she replied, tossing her head in the air haughtily so that her hair spilled down her back. Loki always took that opportunity to pull it.

One day, Thor and Loki were dueling with their toy swords when Sif marched up with her stick. Thor immediately stopped, turning to the little girl with a smile. "Look brother!" he said gleefully. "Sif has come to play!"

"Well, now we can't duel any longer," Loki noted, almost ignoring Sif entirely.

Thor thought about this for a moment before his face lit up. "I know! Aesir and Frost Giants!"

Loki crossed his arms. "I don't like that game," he said. "You always make me the Frost Giant. Make Sif be it this time."

One look at Sif's displeased face told Thor that this wasn't a good idea. He looked around, at a loss; then, a tree with a thick, sturdy trunk caught his eye. "Over here!" he called, beckoning his brother and Sif. "We can use this tree as the Frost Giant. That way, none of us have to be it."

To the children, this seemed like a perfectly logical idea, so they all aimed their weapons at the tree's trunk. "You shouldn't have crossed us, foul beast," Thor bellowed in his voice most befitting of a warrior. "Now you must face the wrath of Prince Thor, Prince Loki, and the Lady Sif!" He let out what he imagined to be a fierce war cry and struck at the tree with his wooden sword. Loki and Sif followed suit, each of them attacking ferociously.

Loki's sword caught Sif's stick, almost breaking it; she turned to him, snapping, "Loki!"

"It was an accident!" he said in his own defense.

"Well, watch better next time," she scolded and went back to beating the tree.

Thor and Loki both played for a while, eventually coming to the mutual conclusion that the Frost Giant was dead and they could return to their realm of peace now. Slowly, they stopped their onslaught; Sif, however, still hacked away at the tree with her stick, flinging the bark off in chunks.

She seemed possessed with a fury, railing against the tree as though it was the most impossible thing to kill in all the nine realms. Her eyes blazed and her blonde curls fell into her eyes as she beat the tree over and over again, screaming, "Die, Frost Giant! Die! Die!"

Loki took a step back, ducking to avoid a piece of her stick that she broke off on her own. "You did that yourself," he was sure to remind her, thought she didn't seem to hear. By now, her cheeks had gone pink with exertion, and Loki, watching wide-eyed, decided that he was glad he wasn't that tree.

If Sif's temper was so blatant against a meager tree, Loki hated to imagine what she would do to a real Frost Giant. He watched Sif abuse the bark, tearing it to bits. She had pieces of the tree in her hair, and he was sure he probably did too.

A fleck of bark flew off the tree's trunk, hitting Loki squarely in the forehead, and he was unspeakably glad that he wasn't a Frost Giant.

* * *

 **A/N: If you're wondering why Sif is a blonde, it's because I like to get my mythos mixed in with my Marvel. In the Norse myths, Sif is a very different kind of character, but she has blonde hair. More on her hair later. Stay tuned.**


	2. Of Golden Hair

**In case you're wondering why the chapters are coming in one giant flurry, I've decided to put them all up at once because they're oneshots. Consider it a late Christmas gift to my readers. :-)**

* * *

 **Of Golden Hair**

Loki sat on the rock, staring hard at his hands. He thought the incantation over and over, hearing each word echo in his mind as vividly as if he had shouted it aloud. "Come on," he muttered through gritted teeth, flexing his fingers. He had done it earlier – entirely by accident, but he had achieved it nonetheless. Now, he was doing his utmost to avoid frustration because, try as he might, he couldn't get those little green flames to curl up from his palms again.

A rustle in the woods behind him broke his concentration, and he whipped around to see Sif pushing through the trees. He let out a breath that he hadn't realized he had been holding. "Sif," he said, relieved. Had it been anybody else, he probably would have magicked himself into the shadows.

She didn't respond, instead plunking herself down heavily beside him on the rock. Loki watched her; she was tense as a brick, a compressed coil of energy that made him instinctively wish to back away, lest she explode.

For a moment, she just sat there, huffing angry breaths. A slight tremor rested in her hands, and her jaw was a vice for how tightly it was clenched.

Loki shifted, not daring to speak.

She picked up a stone, gripping it until her knuckles turned white. "It's not _fair_ ," she said, hurling the rock out into the woods with all her power.

Loki was quiet for a second before he responded. "If I ask what's wrong, will you dislocate my shoulder again?"

"Possibly," she said, and he grimaced. At least she was honest.

"You know," he said after a hesitation, "you were being rather cruel in the ring today."

She didn't say anything, instead picking up two more stones and chipping them against each other, the clicking noise filling the silence. Loki wondered if he should divulge the full extent of his injuries to her, telling her about every bruise, cut, and fracture. When she slumped forward, hanging her head so that her blonde curls hid her face, however, he decided against it. "Sif?" he tried, contemplating laying a hand on her shoulder, though he eventually decided against that too.

Then, she muttered a phrase that sounded vaguely like an apology, and Loki knew something was wrong. Sif never apologized. Least of all to him.

She heaved out a long breath. "They stare at me, Loki," she said, voice small. "They talk about me, and I hear them. They think I'm a waste of time – that I'm not a worthy warrior. Everywhere I go, I can feel them all staring and whispering, and it's like their eyes burn into my back."

He didn't speak; instead, he listened with all the attention of a friend.

"Every day, I need more stamina to get through dinner than training," she continued. "I find myself even going so far as to walk down paths that go well out of my way just because they will be less populated. If it is this difficult, becoming a warrior, I wonder –" her voice broke. "I wonder if, perhaps – What if it _was_ all just a stupid childhood fancy, like they say? What if I am truly meant to be the sort of lady my status demands?" She took in a breath that shivered a little. "I wish my father was still alive," she whispered. "He would know what to do."

"Were your father still alive, I doubt the nobles would be treating you so poorly, for fear of his wrath," Loki offered. "And, I think he would encourage you down your current road. He always was very proud of you." Cautiously, he reached over and laid a hand on her back, making sure to keep it well above her waist. He had no idea when thoughts like that had begun to appear in his mind; probably around the same time that Sif's girlish body had begun to take on some of the features of a woman's. Now, though, she was caught somewhere in limbo, and he had begun sometime during his own ungainly transition to look at her differently. He was suddenly very conscious of where her small, young breasts ended and her ever-narrowing waist began. Her legs (and also where they met her back) had taken on more shape to him too, and he couldn't help but notice it. He cleared his throat, forcing his mind back to the moment at hand. "If there is any way I can help you, Sif –"

She was already shaking her head. "No," she said. "It is not your burden."

He wanted so badly to tell her that she was wrong. That people stared at him too, whispering behind his back. That people judged him and condemned him and berated him at the very least within their own thoughts. He wanted to explain that, because he was gifted with magic instead of steel, he was as much of a target for gossip as she was. But he held his tongue. This was about her, and she didn't want to hear his woes, no matter how similar they were.

"I would prove them wrong, if they would only give me a chance," she lamented, sitting up and pushing her golden curls out of her face. "They don't take me seriously."

"How unfortunate for them," Loki said, and he meant it. "You will be something truly special someday. And they will all regret scoffing at the notion that a woman can fight alongside men as a Warrior of the Realm."

She looked at him for a moment. "You think so?"

"Absolutely."

"Then why do they disagree?" Her clear, blue eyes implored him, asking him all the questions she couldn't bring herself to say aloud. He saw them all, though, and the sight of her looking so vulnerable made him feel sick.

He shook his head. "I don't know," he told her; he hated the sound of it. He wanted to give her solutions. Answers. And yet, all the wanting in the world wouldn't grant him the words she needed to hear right now.

"They think I'm such a _girl_ ," Sif said. "They like me in pretty little dresses wearing my mother's jewels and with my hair all done up like a –" She stopped abruptly, turning to Loki and scrutinizing him.

He knew that look, and he didn't like it. "Sif –"

Before he could get past her name, she had lunged forward, grabbing the knife from where he kept it on the inside of his boot. It was a small thing, not very useful save for its sharp edge. It was made for vanity more so than utility, with its gilt handle encrusted with a spray of rubies. Had the thing been sharper, he would have been more concerned, but, being that it was just the little thing that he carried for the occasional cutting of twine or scoring of twigs, he only arched an eyebrow at her.

"Be honest with me, Loki," she said, entirely serious. "Does my hair make me look like a girl?"

Loki blinked. That hadn't been what he had expected. "Sif, you _are_ a girl," he replied, his eyes quite inadvertently dropping to her breasts for half a second before he righted himself.

Thankfully, she hadn't noticed his moment of indiscretion, instead just leaning closer to him and saying, "But does it look . . . feminine?"

"Of course it does, but, Sif –" He lost his train of thought entirely as she pulled a chunk of hair over her shoulder and began to saw it away with the knife. "No! Sif, what are you doing?"

She opened her fist and strands of blonde fell to the ground like silk. "They think I'm a girl," she said simply.

"Yes, but this is madness," Loki told her, grabbing her wrist before she could cut away any more of her hair. The Aesir only rarely cut their hair, wearing it long through all stages of life. The women especially all cherished their flowing tresses of that varied in shade from white-blonde to auburn red. What would people think if Sif went hacking away at hers?

"It makes perfect sense to me," she retaliated, trying to jerk free of his grip; he wouldn't let her, and that fact only frustrated her more.

"If you really wish to get out of the circle of gossip, this is not the way." He ran his free hand through the portion of her hair that she had just cut. It hung to her shoulder while the rest of her hair fell down her back gracefully. "This is not the way, Sif," he reiterated.

Defiantly, she yanked her wrist away, and, before Loki could protest, she was slicing off more of her hair. "You cannot stop me, so you might as well help me," she told him, cutting off more hair so that it was all relatively the same length. "Tell me; do I look less girlish now?"

Loki was at a loss, gaping at her sheer audacity. His gaze kept flickering between her face and the strands of blonde now littering the rock around her. Absently, he touched them.

"Nothing?" Sif challenged. "I shall have to cut it shorter, then." And she did. All the way to her jaw.

"Sif," Loki stammered, "this is not in any way going to help things."

She looked around her at the hair that had not long ago been part of her. "It will help me," she decided after a moment. The rash light had left her eyes, and she was thinking clearly once more when she looked up at him. "I want it all gone," she said simply.

Everything in Loki's mind – all the arguments and convincing monologues and utter shock – came to a crashing, screeching halt. "I'm sorry?" he managed, though he didn't remember thinking of the words at all.

"You heard me correctly," Sif said, holding out the knife to him. He didn't move to take it. "Loki, please. It will do me no good to keep cutting and cutting. Please help me." After a long moment and with conflict written all over his face, he reached out very slowly and took his knife from her; he had carried it for years, yet it suddenly felt completely foreign to him.

Sif turned around, tilting her head back so that whatever remained of her hair spilled behind her. Loki stared at it, the blonde curls tighter now than they had been when her hair itself had weighed them down. He put out his tongue, wetting his lips anxiously. "You're sure?"

"Yes." Not a hint of doubt came through in her voice.

He took a deep breath and combed her hair back from her forehead with his fingers. He willed his hand not to shake as he set the knife's blade against her hairline. "All of it?" he asked softly.

"Yes."

He hesitated a moment more. "Just remember that you wished this. It was your idea."

"Of course," she said, strangely unperturbed by his reminder. "I am aware."

Loki swallowed, and then, very carefully, dragged the blade along her scalp.

He didn't watch when the hair fell; instead, he kept himself focused on her head, working in sections to get rid of anything blonde. Try as he might, he couldn't ignore the feeling that he was butchering something beautiful.

He had never called Sif beautiful; in fact, it had never truly crossed his mind. She had always been like a sister or a friend, and beautiful had always seemed the wrong word to describe her. Pretty, she was. But beautiful –

Now, there was nothing else in his mind except for that word.

Her hair fell to the flat of the rock, making a carpet there. Strands fell onto his clothes as well, standing out even more starkly against his chosen blacks and deep, rich greens.

Any other woman would have been called insane.

Neither of them said a word as the knife drew close to the nape of her neck. Only a few more sections still hadn't been shorn, and Loki felt his eyes misting at the sight of it. Still, he did as she had asked and removed all of her hair. When the last of it fell from her head, so did a tear from his eye. He was quick to hide it, though, before she turned around.

He wanted to ask her what that had accomplished. The thought fled his mind when her hands – white, feminine, and heavily calloused – ghosted over her bare scalp.

Sif let out a long breath before her hands dropped again. Slowly, she turned to face him. "How do I look?" she asked almost sheepishly.

When her eyes flicked up to him, he realized that he had never truly known just how deep a blue they really were. Her hair had always masked them. Still, he was being entirely honest when he replied, "Different."

"Good different?" she asked. "Bad different?"

He shrugged. "Indifferent."

Just for that, she punched him. On top of all the other injuries she had dealt him during training that day, it hurt quite a lot, but it was worth it; she was grinning. "Stop it, Odinson," she said. "I asked you a serious question."

He smiled because she was. "That was a serious answer."

"Indifferent?"

"No; just . . . different." He wiped some of her hair from the knife blade and commented, "You shan't be winning any beauty contests, though."

She pushed him hard in the shoulder, but she was still grinning wryly. He would have let her hit him all day long if it meant that she would smile more. "That was the point," she said.

"I know that, but the fact still remains."

She tossed her head, but it didn't carry the same weight without her curls swirling around her face. "I am making a statement," she told him, crossing her arms.

He raised his eyebrows. "I couldn't agree more." Then, a thought occurred to him and he laughed. "Just wait until Sigyn sees you."

Sif's eyes grew wide with a mischief that she had undoubtedly learned from Loki himself. "Can we go show her?"

"Right now?"

"Right now."

Loki stashed his knife back into his boot and stood up. He offered her his hand, but, as expected, she didn't take it, shooting him a look instead. "After you," he said, fighting the urge to put _my lady_ at the end of that. He had been railing against that desire for some time now, and he wished he could have explained why that was. Sif was certainly not his lady.

As she set off through the forest along the path that they had carved out for themselves years and years ago, Loki looked back once more at the blanket of golden hair that covered the rock; any trace of humor vanished from his face. He glanced at Sif's back as she slowly moved away from him, and, when he was certain she wouldn't see, he gathered a bundle of strands, tying them in a knot and tucking them up his sleeve. Hair was valuable when it came to sorcery, and there was a certain spell that he knew for which it would prove useful.

* * *

The next morning, when Sif awoke to find a charmed poultice under her pillow and black stubble growing in on her scalp, she knew exactly who was to blame. When she burst into Loki's chambers to demand an explanation, she found them vacant. The curious little knife with the rubies in the handle laid on his bed alongside a note that read:

 _Sif, I thought you should have this. -L_

At first, she considered leaving it. Then, just as she was about to walk away, she turned back and took the knife, tucking it securely into her belt. She didn't know what possessed her to do it; she had been feeling something shifting between them as of late, and, while she never would have thought of it before, there was something enticing about having something of his. So she took it.

Back in her room, she hid it in the bottom of a drawer that held all of the ribbons, bows, and hair combs that she had always so seldom worn before and had no need of now.

She told herself she would never think of it again. She also told herself that she would get rid of the magical poultice immediately. In reality, Sif did neither of those things.

As her hair grew back in, she was only a little surprised to see that it was the exact same raven-feather black as that of the one who had cut it; she didn't know whether to thank him or hate him for it. Still, if she was honest with herself, it was a significant improvement over her bouncy blonde curls.

* * *

As Sif's hair came in, Loki couldn't help but smile wryly. He much preferred it dark, he mused. _Now_ he could honestly say that she was beautiful.

* * *

 **A/N: The cutting of Sif's hair is an event that occurs in the Norse mythos, though I have drastically reimagined it here. I hope you enjoyed it!**


	3. Of Proximity and Panache

**Of Proximity and Panache**

Sif hated dancing.

That was at least what she told people.

Really, she hated dancing with men. Letting them lead her and steer her and touch her . . . it was all dreadfully unappealing to her.

Somehow, she had managed to avoid dancing at every social function thus far. She and the princes had always hung back, entertaining themselves in other ways – ways that generally resulted in a scolding. Recently, though, Thor and Loki had taken to spending more time out on the floor, much to her annoyance. And then, when Sigyn had made some quip about Sif's reluctance to dance, she had begrudgingly decided that it was time she learned.

Formal dancing lessons were out of the question; her pride cringed at the merest idea of anyone knowing of her efforts. She had seen the princes dance before, and, while Thor had plenty of enthusiasm, she just couldn't picture herself keeping pace with him. He would likely inadvertently end up dragging her along instead.

Meanwhile, Loki . . .

He had always shown a rather unprecedented grace in the training ring – one that, to her observation, was only ever augmented on the dance floor. Not to mention that he was something of a steel trap when it came to secrets, and he wouldn't give her a lengthy diatribe when she brought it up. Besides, he was her best friend.

She found him in the library, lounging in his usual armchair, long legs kicked over the side, a stack of books within arm's reach. "Loki, I need a favor," she said in lieu of a greeting.

He glanced up at her from his thick volume and cocked an eyebrow, inviting her to elaborate.

She sighed. "I need your help." Her cheeks were already reddening.

Slowly, he closed his book, setting it on top of the stack. Something tangy sparkled in his eyes, telling her what she already knew – he wasn't going to make this easy on her. "The Lady Sif is asking for help," he drawled. "This must be a momentous occasion indeed."

"Oh shut up, Loki," she said, crossing her arms – and then immediately uncrossing them once she realized just how childish she likely looked. If she hadn't been absolutely certain that getting him to aid her would be entirely worth it, she would have backed away right then and saved her dignity from further groveling. But she stood up straighter, looking down her nose at him, daring him to refuse her.

He stared at her for a moment. "Well then, what can I do for you?" he asked, spreading his hands.

"You can teach me something," she said.

"What sort of something?"

"Something secret."

He raised his eyebrows, intrigued. Then, smoothly, he swung his legs around and rose from his chair. "Alright, my lady, you have my attention," he said.

"I am not your lady," she said sternly. For some reason, the title made her bristle more than usual; perhaps, she reasoned, it was because he had never called her such before. Others, namely Fandral, made a habit of teasing her this way. But Loki hadn't been saying it in jest – nor had he been overtly serious. Still, she didn't like the idea of being any man's lady. Least of all Loki's.

He blinked at her. "No, of course not," he replied. "I'm sorry; I don't know –" he cleared his throat, distracting her from the slight flush that had risen in his cheeks. "Please, go on."

She wanted to ask him what had just happened. To read the answer on his face. But he didn't give her enough time. "It has become necessary as late for me to learn to dance," she snipped.

"Dance?" He cocked his head. "And so you come to me . . . why?"

She huffed out a sigh. "Because you are the best dancer I know. And I trust you."

A tiny smirk cut across his face. She had just earned his help. "When do we start?" he said.

* * *

They had been working for almost a week, hidden away in his chambers where there was a realistic amount of room for them to move. Loki had explained at their first lesson that dance floors were generally crowded, and learning in a more restricted space would prepare her better.

Every day, Sif was reminded of why she had chosen him to help her learn. He was light and fluid when he moved, yet, when he led her through a pattern, he was assertive enough for her to follow with little confusion. If he was graceful to watch, he was wonderful to follow, almost floating through the steps in a way that she hadn't thought possible, what with his long limbs and general lankiness.

"Shall we?" he asked, holding out his hand. He always asked her permission before pulling her into frame; she originally hadn't known how to feel about that. Now, however, she secretly enjoyed it. It made her feel like such a _lady_. Not a girl, mind. A real, proper Lady of the Court, as was befitting of her title.

She placed her hand into his, and he gently drew her closer, laying his other hand on her back. "Today," he said, "I am going to teach you some of the more poetic steps that partners can execute once they understand one another."

"And we understand one another?" she asked teasingly.

"In terms of dance, at least," he replied, only vaguely joking back. Slowly, he guided her to move closer to him – so close, in fact, that she wondered if any substantial amount of daylight could shine between them. When she knit her brow, confused, he just said, "Trust me."

His hand crept down her back to settle at her waist, and – Sif blinked. He was _blushing_. Actually blushing. He was so fair that any sort of flush hardly showed through. But now, he had a soft rose color in his cheeks, tinting them in a way that Sif found oddly flattering.

"Are you alright?" she asked him, looking up a bit so she could catch his eyes.

He gave a small grin, and she felt her own cheeks go warm. "We start with the basic step that I showed you—" he said, ignoring her question and stepping forward on his right foot while she stepped back with her left. The motion was smooth and easy; to think that a matter of days ago, she had had to think very carefully about this.

They danced a few patterns of this, working their way around their dance space, defining it as he had taught her during their first lesson. "We need to claim our perimeter before others get the idea that they can encroach on us," he had said.

"If I may say so, Sif," he told her now, working her through one more round of the basic combination, "you have improved exponentially since we started."

At first, she didn't know how to respond. He so rarely complimented her – or anybody, for that matter – that she found herself staring at him, probing his comment for hidden barbs. "You're serious," she realized.

"Absolutely."

"Well then, thank you," she stammered.

He nodded, turning her once under his arm. "You are still fighting me a bit on the spins," he noted. "Loosen your hand. Let me hold it." They stopped, and he took their joined hands. "See this?" He tried to rotate her hand inside of his. "It's stiff. Relax it." She did; he turned it again. "That's it. Let it flip as you turn – front to back to front again." He took her back into their close frame and put her through a set of the basic steps before turning her again. "Much better," he praised.

"It feels better," she acknowledged, coming full circle and finding herself in his arms once more.

They danced a set or two more before he tried something new. "Follow me," he said, releasing one of her hands and spinning her out from him. He didn't give her much momentum, so she moved slowly, careful not to jerk on his hand. "Good." He tugged her back in, and she turned back to him, trying to come back into frame. Their arms tangled. "No; your back will be to me when you stop. See?" He turned her around and reached in front of her waist, taking her hand. She could feel his breath tickle her ear as he softly said, "This is where we end. From here, I can –" He drew his arm over her, turning her in the process. "And let my hand go –" She did, just enough for it to rotate so that he could take her back into standard frame. "There. Shall we try that again?"

"Yes," she replied, and he took her off once more, working through their steps. This time, she got it. When she looked up at him, he was eyeing her curiously. "What?"

"It surprises me is all," he said, shaking his head. "For railing against dancing for so long, you are actually rather good."

She shrugged, though inside, she was preening at his compliment. "I suppose all the training might help," she said.

He hummed in agreement, very slowly leaning over her, pushing her back into a dip. They had only tried this move once before, but it hadn't ended well. Instead of achieving a pleasant little lean backward, Sif had lost her balance, collapsing to the ground and dragging him with her. "Bend over my arm – lean on it. Use me as support," he instructed softly, and she did, arching her back and letting her head succumb to gravity. "Keep your core tight, and hold on at my shoulder." He laid her back even further, and she felt her knees wanting to bend. "Legs straight," he said, and she fought it. "Let me do all the work. That's it." She did her best to listen, and she found it strangely easy to look up at him. A gentle squeeze of her hand was a signal for her to roll back up; he helped her along with his hand at her back.

"Very good," he said, a teasing glint shining in his eyes. "It's actually quite nice when we stay on our feet. Now spin out."

Sif rolled her eyes as she repeated the spin from earlier—the one where she wound up with her back pressed lightly against his chest. Perhaps it was his quip that made her so determined not to execute the maneuver poorly—whatever it was, she was careful to follow all of his earlier instructions, and the spin combination worked itself out beautifully.

"Lovely," he complimented, his voice quiet and husky in her ear. His breath tickled her neck, and she, for the first time, felt viscerally the warmth of his chest against her back, the line of his arm as it laid in the crook of her waist.

She blinked up at him, his face only a breath away from hers. Her cheeks went warm, and she felt her heart hammering abnormally inside her chest. It suddenly occurred to her that she had never kissed anybody before.

He was watching her closely, face still just as flushed as it had been at the start of their lesson. She had never truly _looked_ at him before. He was Loki. Her best friend. But he had also grown up so much. Where he had been a cute child – if very unusual in appearance for the Aesir – he was now becoming handsome. Very few probably considered him thus, as his dark hair and fair skin were not largely considered beautiful; Sif, however –

"Loki," she breathed.

"Yes?"

She didn't know what to say. Inside her head were screaming a thousand and one different replies, but every one of them sounded quite stupid. She wondered if Loki ever found himself in situations like this, even with his way with words. Sif herself preferred to err more on the side of action.

When she never responded, a look of confusion crossed over his face. Then, she inched closer to him. That, he understood. He leaned down just enough to meet her mouth halfway, and, when she kissed him, he kissed her back.

At the touch of his lips, she felt a euphoria like she had never known – an inexplicable and unprecedented pleasure that pounded in her ears in time with her sporadically-beating heart. His mouth was gentle and soft on hers, and she caught herself wanting more.

Instead, she pulled away.

They stared at each other for a moment, neither of them entirely sure as to what had just happened. All the warmth that had washed over her seconds ago dripped away as the silence between them stretched. Eventually, he opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "I should not have done that."

He didn't move for a moment; then, he closed his mouth and his eyes slipped away from hers. Immediately, she felt like she had just lost something, though she knew not what. "Don't apologize," he told her, collecting her back into frame. "It was my fault. Shall we continue?" She wasn't sure how it was his fault, but they were already off once more, moving gracefully in time to music that was only there in his head.

As he put her through combinations and steps both new and old, she found herself to be distracted; her lips still tingled with the memory of his, and she could still feel him so close that his eyelashes brushed the top of her cheekbone. She wished that she had pulled herself to him when she had had the chance, opening her mouth to let him do what he may. The idea of kissing him again thrilled her more than she was ready to admit – a thing that she found to be more frightening than she had ever imagined.

But she felt everything. His hand at her waist, his easy breathing, his intentions as he guided her. So it did not escape her notice, then, that he had put more space between them than they had had before.

She refused to call that coincidence.


	4. Of Favors

**Of Favors**

Sif had never understood Loki's intense love of the written word. He would read anything. If it contained words that were arranged into meaningful sentences, he would devour it with a fervor that had always astonished her. The only person who understood it less than she did was Thor.

Every now and again, though, he would approach her with a book in his hands and a light in his eyes. He would explain that he had just finished reading it, and he thought she would truthfully enjoy it. Out of courtesy, she would take it. The first few had laid in her chambers for weeks before she started in on them; never once, though, had he been wrong about her interests. By now, she knew better than to put them at the bottom of her priority list.

She laid on her bed, engrossed in a book that he had selected for her the day prior, when she heard a knock on the door. She didn't acknowledge it, instead turning the page and continuing on. In the last day, she had gotten over halfway through this story, and she did not wish to be interrupted now.

Another knock made her look up in frustration. "Yes?" she called, doing her best to sound pleasant, on the off-chance that it was the queen.

The door banged open without further ado, and a tall form clad mostly in black flew inside, closing and locking the door hurriedly behind him.

Sif didn't ask. But she certainly glared. Loki just turned around and put a finger to his lips, putting an ear against the door for a moment. When he smiled at her, it was full of mischief. "Thor is terribly cross right now," he explained. And then, gesturing to the book in her hands, "You're eating that up, aren't you?"

She sat up, putting a ribbon between the pages to mark her place. "It's good, yes," she acknowledged. He didn't seem to be paying attention, though, instead throwing open the doors to her wardrobe and scanning the contents. "What are you doing?"

"Which of these do you think would fit me?" he asked, running his fingers down the sleeve of one of her gowns.

She stared at him, waiting on his words to make sense in her head.

He flipped through her dresses empirically, looking at every one of them in turn. "Sif, you've not worn half of these," he commented.

"And you've noticed?" she said, still not fully understanding why he was rifling through her clothes.

"Of course I have." He pulled out a deep blue dress and held it up, turning it this way and that to see every angle. "What do you think? I mean, it's not green, but –"

"Wait; you're serious?" Sif sputtered.

"Absolutely," he told her, hanging that gown back and leaning on the wardrobe door.

She was silent for a long while; the grin on his face told her that she must have looked ridiculous as she tried to piece together what it was he meant. "So . . . you need a . . . you . . ." she paused, taking a breath. "Why is Thor mad at you?" she asked, deliberately taking a different tack. Imagining Loki wearing one of her gowns was not computing well enough in her mind for her to articulate it.

He laughed. "Oh, he's not mad at _me_. He should be thanking me, although I feel he likely does not share that sentiment. I am trying to help him, the oaf."

"And that involves my wardrobe?" Sif said, arching an eyebrow.

Loki gave a long sigh, looking far too pleased with himself. "This morning, while you were locked away in the pages of that book, Thor got himself into a bit of a bind. The short version is that he lost Mjolnir in a bet, and his precious hammer now lies in Svartalfheim, in the palace of the Dwarvish king." He waved the matter away as though it was entirely too trivial for his taste. "I have already berated him for his imbecilic actions; now, all that remains is to retrieve his stupid hammer so that he will hopefully make the same mistake again sometime, because, truthfully, this has been quite fun."

"How exactly do you plan to do that?"

"Ah, well, that would be where you come in, my lady."

"I am not your lady."

He shrugged her reproach off. "I promised the Dwarf king our lady Freyja as a bride in exchange for Mjolnir," he continued. "Now, I simply have to deliver."

Sif blinked at him. "You are going to masquerade as Freyja?" she asked; that image created even more dissention in her mind.

He scoffed. "Don't be silly! Thor is."

For a long moment, Sif gaped at him. Finally, she said, "That is the most idiotic idea that I have ever heard in my entire life."

Loki rolled his eyes. "I know for a fact that that's not true. You've heard my brother's plans, have you not?" He turned back to her closet, leafing through the gowns again. "You of all people should appreciate the strategy of this, Sif. From behind a bridal veil, Thor will look enough like Freyja to fool the king—if nobody else," he mused, pulling out a sunset red dress and looking at it.

"You are storming the Dwarvish castle – that, I understand and can appreciate. But dressed as women?" She got up from her bed, crossing to him and taking the gown out of his hands. "Orange is not your color."

Loki gave a smug grin, but he didn't say anything as Sif pushed him to the side, flipping through her wardrobe herself. "I cannot believe I am helping you with this," she said, glancing at a wine-colored gown for just an instant before putting it back.

"Oh, come now," he drawled. "You have to see the genius behind it. They shan't suspect a thing."

"I am certain they won't," she noted wryly, pulling out another gown and holding it beside him. She shook her head, hanging it back. "This isn't working," she said, marching up to him and grabbing his collar. Instinctively, he tried to twist out of her grip, only stopping when he realized that she wasn't trying to hurt him; she was unbuckling his coat.

"You could just ask nicely, you know," he said, blatant teasing splayed all over his face. "Unless, of course, you enjoy taking my clothes off."

She pretended not to hear him, ducking her chin so he wouldn't see the way her face had colored at his comment. Enjoyed it, indeed. "It's too bulky," she explained, pushing the coat from his shoulders. It fell to the floor, gathering into a heap. Before he could comment, she had started in on his vest. "I cannot possibly find something to fit you if I can't see how you are built."

He didn't speak, instead just letting her work.

She didn't stop until multiple layers of clothing laid on the floor, and he was wearing only his green tunic over his black leather pants and boots. Her hands hovered at the hem, considering. He arched a brow at her, and she backed away a half step. "Sorry," she said, not intending to infringe on his modesty.

He shrugged. "I just think I can manage this bit on my own," he told her, loosening the laces at the neck and slipping the shirt off over his head. "Better?"

For a moment, she could only stare. He stared back, face carefully blank.

He was strong. She had always known this; she had fought him enough times to understand. But seeing him there, nothing but his skin on the entire upper half of his body – it seemed much more tangible to her. Planes of muscles arced around his torso, pale as the rest of him and very tight. Still, he was smaller than his brother by nearly half. It amazed her – something so lethal contained in something so compact. What commanded her attention the most, though, was the plethora of scars that carved into his skin. Some were old and very faded – likely from his childhood, stretched into oblivion when he had grown. Others were more recent, and there were even four or five that still glared at her, angry and red and barely healed. She wondered which among them had been her doing.

"Sif?" he said.

"Sorry," she said abruptly, tearing her eyes from him and instead turning to her wardrobe, staring absently at the gowns. "I didn't realize you had so many scars." Though her back was turned to him, the image of him still swam in her mind, as real and as detailed as if she was seeing him before her. She tried to blink the idea away, focusing on the dresses, but it was harder than she had anticipated. She felt him walk up behind her, reaching over her shoulder to touch a deep purple dress. The look of his arm – completely bare and leanly sculpted – still came as a vague shock to her, who had never seen him without some sort of shirt. With sleeves.

"What about this one?" he said.

"That one's tight even on me."

"Ah." Quietly, he leafed through her wardrobe from over her shoulder. "Sif, you really should wear these sometime. They're quite pretty," he said empirically, as though he was talking about weapons or armor—about things that weren't designed to make her look more beautiful to people like him.

She shrugged. "Maybe someday. If I have the occasion." She backed up, looking at him again. A bit of the shock returned when she did, though it was considerably more manageable than before. She hummed thoughtfully while he stood obediently still. "I think…" she turned back to her wardrobe, looking for the dress she had just remembered. "It's not one of my favorites, but…" From the very back of the closet, she pulled a golden gown, holding it up to him. "Yes, it should work," she mused, feeling grateful that he was as lean as he was. Someone like Thor never would have even come close to fitting into one of her dresses.

Loki reached out, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. It was light, like his tunic, cut in a very gentle, flattering style. "That's good enough for me. I only need to get past a slew of dwarves, and we all know how – ah – unconventional they are with regards to their perception of beauty." He winked at her.

She tried to shove that mental image away, still refusing to picture him wearing her gown. "Just see to it that it gets back to me in one piece," she told him, shoving it at him.

He smiled. "Of course. I should like to see you wear it someday. I'll bet it would look better on you than me." He pulled his tunic back on and gathered the rest of his clothes in his arms, effectively hiding the gold dress. He bent down and pecked a kiss onto her cheek, saying, "Thanks for this, Sif. You're a real life saver," and he was out her door again as quickly as he had come.

For a long moment, she stood there, rooted to the spot. The silence seemed to ring after so much activity. She could only blink, replaying these latest events in her mind as the dust settled around her. Briefly, she wondered if it had been a dream. But she knew better. She knew Loki better, and this was in no way beyond him.

She rolled her eyes, muttering, "Please," as she seamlessly went back to her book, her wardrobe doors still hanging open.

* * *

 **A/N: As with the cutting of Sif's hair, this circumstance is one out of mythology as well. Thor was indeed disguised as Freyja in a bridal gown, and Loki posed as his handmaiden. As I understand it, Thor made a rather fetching bride. ;-)**


	5. Of Booze and Beauty

**Of Booze and Beauty**

Loki, like nearly every child on Asgard, had grown up on liquor. It had been the lighter things when he had been a child – smooth, with just enough alcohol to keep his immune system working hard. Now that he was older, though, he was allowed to drink whatever he pleased.

He had also spent centuries watching the adults and quietly snickering at their behavior after they had had a bit too much. They became utter fools, every one of them; nonsense and mayhem and many, many idiotic decisions followed the stronger alcohol wherever it went. He enjoyed very few things more than seeking out a quiet corner, hidden from view, and just watching things unfold in the great hall. He had never truly understood why they acted such, but he hadn't necessarily cared; it was amusing, and he had no qualms about laughing at the expense of others.

Consequently, being drunk wasn't very high on his priority list. His pride simply could not take it.

One evening, at dinner, Thor was verging on that sort of hilarity that Loki had seen so frequently in the other adults. In fact, it seemed that nearly everybody else was either there as well or working their way closer with each swallow. Thor threw an arm around him, laughing his noisy, hearty laugh that made Loki's ears ring. "Brother, you really must try this," he slurred, holding out his tankard to him.

Loki eyed it skeptically. "Thank you, but I'd rather not," he said, easing himself out from under Thor's arm and angling himself away from him.

"Oh, come on Loki," Fandral joined from across the table. "Don't be a prude."

He arched an eyebrow at his friend. "I fear you mistake prudish for prudent," he told him. "Forgive me if I would like to retain my faculties."

Volstagg just laughed into his drink. "Probably couldn't handle it anyway."

Loki sighed quietly, rolling his eyes, refusing to respond to that. He instead did as his mother had always counseled him whenever he felt his temper begin to roil dully deep within him. He walked away with grace, dignity, and a very fake smile.

* * *

Less than an hour later, the library door opened and he looked up from the pages of the book that he had been reading to see Sif closing it behind her. "Just me," she said, coming over to sit with him. "I figured I would find you here. You are getting predictable, Trickster." She smirked, shoving one of the armchairs out of the way and sitting on the floor. "What are you reading, anyway?"

He had to think about that, closing the book and looking at the cover. " _A History of the Caste System in the Courts of Asgard_ , apparently," he told her.

"That sounds exceptionally uninteresting."

He shrugged. "It was the first thing I saw."

"You really _will_ read anything," she said.

"I will when I'm cross," he replied, setting the book on an end-table and joining her on the floor.

She looked up at him. "That was rather rude of them," she agreed. "But you mustn't let them get to you, Loki. You ought to know this by now."

He rolled his shoulders, wishing that the annoyance would just fall off and leave him alone. "I know in theory," he said. "Still, sometimes the execution becomes difficult." For the first time, he noticed that she had brought something into the library with her – a bottle and two goblets that she was setting out on the ground between them. "Is that –?"

She nodded, a mischievous smile creeping onto her face. "I want to know what it tastes like, but I couldn't drink it in front of _them_ ," she said.

Loki understood perfectly. They would never let her forget it if she – or he, for that matter – had any sort of reaction to the taste. Or if it went straight to their heads. Now, as Sif poured a little of the amber liquid into the two goblets, he couldn't help but grin. No doubt that she had stolen the bottle right off the table, concealing it in the draping folds of her dress, discretely snagging the glasses from the dishroom on her way to him.

She picked up her goblet, sniffing the mead gingerly. He took his glass, suddenly unwilling to protest. If she wished to drink with him, well, who was he to deny her? She held her glass up in a toast. "To breaking the rules," she said, and he echoed her sentiment, touching the rim of his glass to hers with a soft _clink_.

Without a second of hesitation, they both swallowed the contents of their goblets in one gulp. Loki kept his eyes closed as it went down, burning in a not altogether unpleasant manner. Actually, he wasn't sure he disliked it. When he looked at her, Sif had a similar sentiment on her face.

As if by unspoken agreement, she picked up the bottle and refilled both glasses. They drank again, and this time, Loki was relatively certain that he _did_ like the heat in his throat as the liquid went down. It was pleasant – unlike anything he had ever felt before.

A little while later, he could feel a warm haze reaching up into his head. He guessed that Sif felt it too, because she was laughing. He laughed because she did, even though there was nothing funny that he had noticed. Her face had grown flushed with the alcohol, and her eyes looked dark and radiant in the low torchlight of the library. He smiled to himself as she shifted, rearranging her long, flowing skirt around her legs. He could just barely see her feet, and she wasn't wearing shoes.

She took his glass, pouring more mead into it. He watched her, his eyes unintentionally roving all over her body while she wasn't looking. She had grown into a divine woman, he thought. As she handed him back his goblet, his fingers brushed hers, and he had never really noticed just how pretty her hands were. They were usually grasping a sword anyway. But tonight, she looked like a woman – his eyes briefly followed the low, draping neck of her dress down, catching a modest glimpse of a cleavage line before he yanked them up again – and her hands, though significantly calloused, were feminine too.

They drank, and she laughed again. He hadn't realized how much he enjoyed the sound of her laugh. Words were pushing their way onto his tongue, and he couldn't stop himself before they spilled off: "You're beautiful."

She looked at him curiously, and he instantly regretted saying anything at all. He had never called any woman beautiful before – not in this way, at least. But, he tried to reason through the fog, it was true.

After a long moment, Sif laughed – a slow, drawling, partially-inebriated thing that sent a delighted shiver down his spine. He laughed too, though he knew not why; he had been entirely serious.

Before he could ask her about it, she leaned across the space between them and kissed him fiercely.

A second later, she was gone, and he was blinking at her, briefly stunned. She smiled, genuine and becoming. "Nobody ever calls me beautiful," she said.

"Well, they should," he told her, feeling much less eloquent than usual. He chose to blame it on the mead – not on the fact that Sif had just stolen a brilliant, passionate kiss that had left him craving more. "It's the truth."

She looked at him curiously. "You should drink more often," she slurred, leaning a little closer to him and smirking. "You're rather handsome when you talk sweetly like this."

"I'll not tell Sigyn you said that," he told her, an inadvertent smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Sif pouted mockingly at him. "Poor little Sigyn. Would she be a touch jealous?"

He scoffed, saying, "I think so, though I know not why. I am no more hers than she is mine."

"But she is meant to be yours."

"And you are meant to be Thor's," Loki reminded her with an arched brow.

She hesitated a second before lowering her voice and saying, "I do not love him, though. No more than as a brother or a friend."

"Neither do I love Sigyn enough to marry her," he said quietly, glancing around them as if the very shelves and sconces could hear them.

"Good," Sif scoffed. "She does not suit you anyway."

He wished he could say the same about his brother with regards to her. Instead, he shrugged. He fully intended to tell her something else, but the words "I love you" fell from his tongue instead.

For a second, they stared at each other. And then the both burst into spontaneous laughter. "I'm sorry," he told her. "I have no idea –"

She just shook her head, gasping for air. "I know, I know," she said, dissolving even further into her fit.

As long as she was laughing, he couldn't stop. So they both laughed until tears fell from their eyes and their sides ached. When he could breathe again, he leaned across the space between them and kissed her. It was long and intentional and messy and perfect, and Sif pulled herself closer, knocking over her empty glass and winding her arms around his neck. Their tongues touched. Breaths became gasps and little giggles bartered between their mouths. Somewhere in the back of Loki's mind, he knew they would never talk of this. From the second they broke apart, it would be like it never happened. From the way Sif was kissing him, he guessed that she knew it too.

Neither of them wanted that.

As Sif slid her hand down his chest, a shiver shuddered through his entire body, and he wondered if perhaps he really _did_ love her. After all, mead had a reputation for drawing out even the most subconscious of secrets. He shrugged it off; he'd probably forget it tomorrow anyway.


	6. Of Golden Thread (Part I)

**Of Golden Thread (Part I)**

She had not intended to see.

Nobody had even realized she was there, hiding in the shadow of a column as the doors banged open, giving way to two dwarf guards, and, between them, Loki. She was curious, so she stayed. The image was almost comical; Loki was almost twice the height of the dwarves. She would have laughed, had it not been for the murderous rage on the guards' faces.

"Allfather," one of them growled, bowing his head in tense respect.

Odin eyed them all suspiciously. "Greetings. What brings the Dwarf King's private guards to my court?" His gaze shifted to Loki. "And why have you brought my son to me like a common prisoner?"

The other guard stepped up and bowed. "With all due respect, Allfather, your younger prince is a liar."

Loki didn't seem bothered by the accusation. He actually seemed to be bored with the futility of it all as he said, "Father, I told their king one little mistruth. I assure you it was unintentional." He held out his manacled wrists to his father in a silent request to be set free.

But Odin only stared at him. "This is not the first time you have been brought before me and called a liar," he said.

"And it likely shan't be the last, if people continue to react like this," Loki said, entirely unfazed.

"We are the house of Odin; our word means something," Odin told his son strictly.

"I know that," Loki said. "But I was just having a bit of harmless fun. I can't help that the dwarf king failed to see the humor." He shrugged and held out his hands again. "Now I know better."

For a long moment, Odin sat silently. Then, he turned to the guards. "Why have you chained my son?" he asked, voice neutral – unreadable.

"We were going to punish him according to our law," said one of the guards. "The King had us bring him to you so that you could offer your opinion."

At the word "punish," Loki's head whipped around to the guard speaking. He hadn't been expecting that. "I'm sorry?" he asked, stunned.

Odin considered for a moment before asking the spokes-guard about the nature of the punishment. In response, a malicious fire rose in the guard's eyes, and he reached into a pouch at his hip, drawing out a long, shimmering golden thread. "To close his mouth, Allfather," the guard said with sinister simplicity.

"What?" Loki stammered. "How do you intend to –"

"Very literally, Your Highness," snarled the other guard into Loki's ear.

Loki blinked for a second before he appealed to the throne. "Father, you can't be serious."

Odin only looked at his son.

"Alright," Loki tried again, "I know I do not always speak the truth. I admit that. But I never do so out of mal intent. You know I never mean to hurt anybody."

"Still, you must learn," Odin muttered. "Kneel."

Loki looked helplessly around him for anybody; for a second, Sif contemplated rushing out and stopping them. But, in that second, the dwarves had magicked Loki to his knees. "Father, please!" Loki begged. "I have learned. I promise. Just – please, don't do this."

Sif's breath caught in her throat when the dwarvish guard pulled more of the golden thread from the pouch, poking it through the eye of a thick, blunt needle.

"Proceed," Odin said to the guards.

"No! Father, please!" But the other guard had already moved behind him, holding his head in place and clamping his jaw shut.

Sif had never seen such acute fear in her friend's eyes before. Such hurt. He stared up at Odin, a thousand pleas in his eyes. Still, Odin did nothing.

When the needle made its first pass behind his lips, he jerked away, a small rivulet of blood trickling from the newly opened hole in his skin. The dwarves wrenched his head back into place and drew the thread down, poking the needle out through his bottom lip and pulling it tight.

Loki's eyes were clenched shut, and the rest of his body was rigid.

The dwarves made another stitch, this time in front of his lips; Loki shivered.

The work was slow, and Sif wanted to look away. Something sadistic within her forced her to watch, though, as Loki wrenched his head away from them like an abused animal. She had to press her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.

The dwarves were nearing the apex of his lips now, and Loki's chin was streaked with blood that dripped to the floor like red tears. When the needle stabbed this time, the skin was thicker; he sucked in a tight breath through his nose, shaking from the pain. He was breathing hard, yanking his face this way and that with every sighting of the needle.

He bowed his head, and, before the dwarves could jerk it upright once more, she saw him spit out a mouthful of blood. They had barely made the next stitch when he tried to pull away again, blood seeping out the corner of his mouth. They didn't let him, though, instead holding his head in place and thrusting his chin upward. He fought the blood at first, sputtering and choking on it in an effort to avoid swallowing. He tried to cough it up, but the dwarves wouldn't give his head enough freedom to do it. Sif could see the conflict in his eyes – the agony – as he tried to breathe around his own blood for a second longer. She bit her knuckles until she too could taste blood and he swallowed.

She felt something cool and wet slip onto her cheek.

Before the dwarf guards pulled him around again, taking up the needle that spun in midair, suspended on the golden thread binding his lips closed, Loki looked right at her.

Sif gasped, backing further into the shadows and praying that he hadn't just seen her. Looking at her and seeing her were two different things, she tried to persuade herself. But a small voice in the back of her mind kept insisting, _Not with him_. He saw. In that instant in time, she knew he had seen her – all of the pain and horror plastered all over her face. The fear for him. The shame.

She was still thinking about it when the guards commenced their sewing. He convulsed with each stab of the needle, trembling on his knees, absolutely silent.

Sif watched them finish. Then, with a knot and a clip of scissors – Loki shied away from these, too – the dwarves were bowing their leave to Odin. Before they left, one of them produced a miniscule key from the same pouch that had contained the golden thread, unlocking the manacles on Loki's wrists with a dull _clank_. She watched Loki's hands – those elegant hands that cast magic and threw knives and danced with enthusiasm when he told stories – as the dwarf removed the chains; they were dead. Tears were cutting rivulets through Sif's cheeks, stinging as she sunk to the ground and leaned against the pillar for support that her muscles just would not give.

Once the door had swung shut behind the dwarves, Odin descended slowly from his throne, approaching Loki's huddled form. He placed a fatherly hand on Loki's head, brushing back the dark hair. Loki did not acknowledge it. "Let this be a lesson to you, my son," he said. "You must think before you speak."

If Loki had heard him, he didn't show it. With a sigh, Odin too left the room, his footfalls echoing in the massive chamber with the weight of what had just happened.

The air was thick when she finally crawled out from her hiding place.

He hadn't moved.

His legs were folded underneath him, his strong, proud back slumped in defeat. He hung his head and several loose strands of hair slipped from behind his ear, obscuring his face. She could hardly even see him breathing.

Clumsily, she scrambled to her feet, crossing the distance between them and kneeling at his side. From that vantage point, she could see the blood that dripped from his lips much more clearly. The floor was dotted all over with red in a macabre mosaic, Loki at the center. He did not look at her.

She sniffed back her tears, hands reaching out to touch him. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, throat thick. "I'm so sorry."

Very slowly, he laid a hand on top of one of hers. She could feel how it still shivered with torment, fluttering subtly like a butterfly with holes torn through its wings. Then, he turned to her.

The sight of his face could have stopped her heart.

Bloody. Everything around his mouth was slick with red, be it from swelling or from the bleeding. It streaked in thin lines down his neck, matting the ends of his hair in places. Blood had even found its way up onto his cheeks. Through all this shone the remorseless golden thread, lashing his lips closed in a jagged line of stitches. His face was pale, but his eyes were the most ghastly part of him. They screamed of betrayal. Abandonment. Hurt.

 _Why did you not speak, Sif?_

She reached up to scrub away her tears, and he watched her. "I'm so sorry," she said again and again, begging him to forgive her. When he didn't respond, it struck her hollowly that it was not because he had nothing to say. It was because he couldn't.

Without thinking, she threw herself into him, nearly knocking him over. She held him close, comforting him, offering him an apology with more than just words. Words were meaningless now. After a long moment, his hands ghosted to her back, and he drew himself closer, laying his head on her breast and finally letting the tears come.

She had his blood on her shirt; she could feel it soaking through to her skin, mingling with his tears as his body shook, this time with sobbing. She simply held him, her own tears falling into his hair; she pressed a kiss into the top of his head, and she felt his fingers fist themselves in the fabric of her shirt. "I'm so sorry," she murmured once more, though not in apology any longer. "Loki, I am so sorry."

He just clung to her as if she was the only thing holding him still in a fast-spinning world. She let him, gently stroking his hair and waiting for her own tears to stop.

* * *

 **A/N: Another point in which mythology has found its way into my story! Again, I reinterpreted it, though Loki's mouth was sewn shut in the legends.**


	7. Of Golden Thread (Part II)

**Of Golden Thread (Part II)**

That evening, after dinner, Sif slipped into his rooms. He was sitting in a wingback chair by a fire that had dwindled to embers. Shadows bent toward him like a second skin, magnetically hovering over him as they would a corpse and speaking volumes about his current state. He looked up when the door creaked closed behind her, and she felt an all too familiar sensation of her breath hitching at the sight of his mouth, sewn up with the golden thread. She imagined that she would never grow used to the sight.

"Hello," she said softly in greeting, and he tried to smile, wincing a bit for his efforts. The thread at the corner of his mouth tugged, a pinprick of blood seeping out and sitting there ominously. His wounds, while no longer streaked with blood, were extremely sensitive to any sort of movement. The droplet by the thread slid onto his lip, squeezing into his mouth and making him grimace at the taste of it. "Does it hurt?" she asked, feeling immensely stupid the second the words escaped her.

He shrugged.

"You can tell me the truth, you know," she said quietly, dropping into the empty chair opposite him. "You needn't be brave for my sake."

He glanced at her, eyes lifeless and dull despite his cocked eyebrow. The sight pained her. He gave a very slight nod. _Yes, it hurts very much._

She had expected this, but it still cut her to see him admit it. "I'm sorry," she told him, and he rolled his eyes. The gesture was entirely devoid of his usual jaunty humor. _Not this again._ "But I am sorry, Loki," she pressed. "This never should have happened."

He shook his head. _No it shouldn't._ Then, he looked very sternly at her, his eyes getting his point across sufficiently without words. _But it is not your fault._

She didn't bother contesting his silent assertion; instead, she grabbed a poker and stoked the dying embers absently. "Everyone thinks you are merely ill," she told him. "They know not _what_ ails you. I assumed that you would prefer to keep it that way for the time being."

He nodded once, watching the fire flare up through the cracks Sif opened in the ashes.

For a long moment, they sat in silence. Then, Sif took a breath. "Is there anything I can do to help you?" she asked.

She expected him to shake his head, refusing her outright. But he looked at the floor, considering. Then, he pulled a book from the stack nearest his chair, cracking it open to a random page and scanning it. He pointed to a word and showed her. _Stay_.

Sif smiled warmly. "Absolutely," she replied. She could see his thanks in his eyes, shining feebly through the glaze that had stolen his every expression.

She spoke very little the rest of the night, instead just existing beside him. Her presence alone seemed to chase some of the shadows back, and he eventually drifted into sleep sitting upright in his chair. She was not far behind him, only staying awake long enough to glance over through the ever-diminishing firelight and see for herself what he looked like when he slept.

* * *

His silence was long and harsh.

Besides Thor, Frigga, and Sif, not a soul was interested in making it easier on him. It was punishment, they reasoned, so it should hurt like it was meant to. If he was scorned during his time with a sewn mouth, then so be it. If he suffered because of it, it was justified.

Sif made a point of disagreeing.

Loki bore the hardly-veiled stares and whispers with the sort of rigid grace that he had adopted specifically for situations like this. He carried himself with all the pride befitting of a prince, though he spent a great deal of time very intentionally looking at the ground, avoiding the eyes of those around him. He did his utmost to let it all roll off his back – or at least make it appear that way.

Sif visited him every evening in his quarters, where the two of them could breathe without a courtier or nobleman staring them down. With the oppression of life at bay until morning, she could see that at least some of their barbs had taken hold, and, despite his thick skin, were hurting him. In those precious, sacred hours of the night, he could tell her everything with just his eyes. What she saw there during each visit worried her. It was all slow, arduous defeat. It was futile resistance. It was _I don't know for how much longer I can do this_.

And yet, the next morning, there he'd be. Head held high and proud, posture straight, regal, and immaculate, hands clasped carelessly behind his back as though not a thing could bother him.

Later that night, he would lay his head on her chest and cry. His tears were silent, like everything else in his life since the rude introduction of golden thread, and she would cry at the cool, wet feeling of them on the skin at her collarbone. She would say encouraging things that rang hollowly in her ears and run her fingers through his hair because it helped her calm down.

When he had been mute for long enough, as determined by Odin, the task of removing his stitches had originally fallen to Thor, who blanched at the idea. Sif, however, stepped up, and, with cold hands, she shut herself in his rooms. He was sitting by the fire, evidently expecting his brother, judging by the change of expression when he saw Sif there instead. His eyes flicked to her small, lithe fingers, and the fear in his eyes diminished by a fraction. Even so, his face was sheet-white. She saw him swallow and draw a deep breath, and she abruptly wished that she was anywhere else than with him right that moment. She could understand why Thor hadn't wanted to do this.

Slowly, she knelt down in front of him, reaching out to brush her thumb over the edge of the thread where the knot had been tied. "Your father sent Thor, but he couldn't," she explained. She tried to hide the tremor in her hands as she reached into her belt for the tiny dagger she would use to cut the thread away. "I suppose you shall never be ready for this," she mused, turning the blade over and over in her hands.

He didn't need to shake his head for her to understand that she had spoken the truth.

"I wish there was another way," she murmured, and she realized that she was stalling. She crawled a bit closer to him, holding his face gently in her hands, inspecting the thread. She looked at him, setting her jaw and letting a stoic shield fall over her. "Try not to move, and I shall be as swift as possible."

She tugged the knot from its pocket of skin and dried blood, cutting it free from the length of the thread with a delicate, careful slice. He didn't move. When she started pulling the thread back through it holes, though, he jerked away.

She had always known that it would hurt; undoubtedly, so had he. Still, seeing him flinch made her hands shake when she went to give the thread another pull.

The more thread she released, the more he reacted. She tried to loosen each segment before she disrupted it, but, if it helped, it was only a very little. About halfway across his lips, she paused, letting the golden thread – which, to her, more resembled barbed wire at that moment – hang freely. He was bleeding again, and she used the small dagger to cut a section out of her shirt hem, handing it to him. His hands were subtly trembling as he lifted the soft cloth to his lips, dabbing very gently at the blood that seeped immediately through it, staining it a dark red.

She couldn't steady the tremor in her hands or her voice when she worked on a particularly difficult spot, and, when he shivered in pain, said, "I'm so sorry, Loki." She was speaking idly as she worked, but she felt as though her heart was pushing its way up her throat and out her lips. "You will never have to endure torture like this on your own again," she said, every word pure and true and terrifyingly unsteady. "I will never abandon you again. I promise."

Somehow, her shaking hands were coordinated enough to get the rest of the thread out. He was trembling in agony, but he made a concerted effort not to shy away, letting her work more quickly. In perhaps another minute, a bloody strand of thread laid on the ground between them, his lips no longer bound but still very much closed.

She cut another square out of her shirt, this one bigger than the last, letting him do his best to staunch his own bleeding. Even though it hurt like a knife through her chest, she sat motionlessly and watched him cope. Everything in her longed to touch him – to hold him as she had when the stitches had first lashed his mouth closed. But, because he didn't move, neither did she.

His eyes strayed down to the thread on the floor; he pulled the cloth away and looked at the amount of blood that had soaked into the fibers, and his eyes hardened. His empty fist clenched on his thigh, so tight that she could see the knobby whites of his knuckles. Almost reflexively, she laid a hand on top of it, feeling it relax a bit instantly at her touch. She leaned a breath closer. "Loki?"

Nothing bound his lips now. He was completely free. And yet, he spoke not a word, instead only looking at her in bland acknowledgment when she said his name.

"You –" she tried, having swallow to get the words out. "You can speak now, you know."

For a long moment he stared at her as though she had introduced a novel concept to him and he had yet to decide whether or not he believed her. Then, he shook his head. Lost sorrow touched his eyes, and she understood. _I think I might have forgotten how._


	8. Of Frostbite

**Alright. Here's where we start to meet up with the film canon. This anecdote is spurred by something that happened during the battle on Jotunheim in the first "Thor" film. Of course, I own nothing except for the words.**

* * *

 **Of Frostbite**

Sif had barely raised her knuckles to his door to knock when it opened and Loki grabbed her arm, pulling her inside. "You know it's not really the best time for you to call me here," she told him. "Your brother was just banished."

"I know that; I was there," he replied absently, as though, despite his words, Thor's expulsion from Asgard was the farthest thing from his mind.

Sif folded her arms. "You could show a little more sorrow – respect at least."

"Well forgive me for being a bit preoccupied," he snapped back.

"Preoccupied?" she asked, blinking at him in frustrated disbelief. "Preoccupied by what, exactly? What in all Yggdrasil could be more important to you than your brother?"

"Lots of things, Sif! Believe it or not, the universe does not revolve with Thor at its center!"

She stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out when this had become an argument. He had a hand pressed to his forehead, eyes squeezed shut as he sighed hard and fidgeted with his other hand. That caught her attention. He so rarely yelled; it was even less frequently that he ever did anything that could even be compared reasonably to fidgeting. "You are not acting like yourself," she said bluntly – a better option than punching him.

"I'm sorry; I know," he said, pressing his fingers even deeper into his temples. "I just can't seem to shake this – and I – I'm preoccupied." He was pacing around the room like an agitated animal.

"Loki," Sif said, and he stopped, looking at her. She spread her hands invitingly, any fighting between them entirely eclipsed by his strange, atypical behavior. "Talk to me."

It only took a moment for the floodgates to open. "That's why I called you here. There is something very . . . heavy on my mind, and you are the only person I could – I trust you." He stopped for a second, his mouth opening and closing around words that just wouldn't come. Finally, he forced himself to say, "Earlier, on Jotunheim – how is Fandral?"

Sif narrowed her eyes at him, growing more concerned for him every instant. "Alright," she replied.

"Still burnt?"

"Yes, though Eir will have him cured in no time."

"So," he said, resuming his pacing once more, "would you say that, logically, any of us would get burnt as well if we touched a Frost Giant?"

Everything about him was sending prickles down the back of Sif's neck – a sensation that she typically only ever felt when something was terribly amiss and she or someone close to her was in immediate danger. The feeling of _too quiet_ and _red flags_ and _sleeping dragons_. "Yes," she replied.

"I didn't."

There it was. The ax that had been hovering in the air, waiting to fall. She stared at him, unsure as to whether she should be elated or frightened. He wasn't hurt, she reasoned. That was a good thing. Still, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself of that rationale, his demeanor stopped her from believing a single word of it. "You touched a Frost Giant?" she asked, incredulousness masking the myriad of other shocked emotions coursing through her.

"He touched me," Loki explained. "Grabbed my wrist and didn't let go."

"Show me," Sif demanded, and he rolled up his sleeve, showing her his perfectly unscathed forearm. She gaped at it, wondering how it was possible that Fandral had been charred to black while he was just as fair as ever. There were not even any new scars.

"See?" He pulled his sleeve down immediately, hiding the anomaly from himself. "But it wasn't just that I didn't burn. I –" Words on his lips usually flowed like water or mercury. Now, though, they were ungainly, and he, the silver-tongued second prince, was struggling. Sif had only ever seen him so speechless once before, and that had been after his right of speech had been forcibly taken from him by some dwarves and golden thread. Even after his mouth had been freed, he had refused to speak at all for days. But he had been through significant trauma then, Sif reminded herself. A feeling at the back of her mind nagged at her, sticking her with the uncomfortable notion that there are, also, many types of trauma.

Loki took a breath. "When the Frost Giant touched me, I – my hand turned . . . cold." His voice was trembling at the memory, and he closed his eyes, forcing out two more words. "And blue."

She stared at him for too long, trying her hardest to make logical sense of what he had just told her – trying to imagine, in her head, what his hand would have looked like or how she would have reacted had she seen it. Trying to decide whether this was possible at all in the first place. Something about the prospect of it frightened her, though, and she wanted to believe that he was merely teasing her, playing a trick like he so often did. He was, after all, a flawless liar.

But the fear in his eyes betrayed him in so raw a way that she was left with absolutely no room for doubt, no matter how hard she tried to refute the possibility of it. She had known his face her entire life; she could still not consistently catch him in a lie, but she could always tell when he was being honest.

He closed his eyes, holding his trembling hand out in front of him, extended toward her stiffly as his breathing deepened and the rigidity in his shoulders tried to melt away. Slowly, reluctantly, he wrapped the fingers of his other hand around the wrist of his shaking one, muttered a cantrip, and immediately, his skin started changing.

It happened so quickly that Sif was stricken by how readily his body took on such an unnatural, frozen, horrifying hue. More startling than just the color of his flesh, though, was its transformed consistency. It was so little like flesh at all now that she couldn't help but stare at the hard, stone-like texture on the back of his hand – the ridges that carved through the skin like scratches in a flat plane of ice or scarring on a frosty boulder.

Something was wrong. Loki's eyes were pinched shut, the tight strain reappearing throughout his entire body as his blue hand shivered violently. "No – stop," he muttered through clenched teeth. She watched as he squeezed his wrist harder in his still-fair hand as if strangling the frozen hue that she could barely see bleeding up his arm and disappearing under his sleeve. His eyes flew open desperately, and he tried to pull his hand off of his own wrist; it was as though it had been soldered in place. Panic rose on his face as he twisted his blue hand this way and that, doing all that he could to break his own unrelenting grip over which he no longer had any control. "Sif –"

She stumbled backward, stifling a gasp as the blue crept up his neck, reaching its icy tendrils onto the planes of his face. Before she could even understand what was happening, he was staring back at her through terrified crimson eyes that smoldered like embers set inside a glacier. Runic markings arched over his face and all the way down his neck similarly to the ones on the backs of his hands – both of which were now blue.

She wanted to scream, or pull a weapon, or back into a corner and pray. She was staring into the eyes of a Frost Giant. And her best friend. The red eyes that inspired fear and hatred and dread, and the eyes that knew to fear and hate and dread the red eyes.

Finally, a massive, oppressive force seemed to lift from him, and he yanked his wrist out of his hand roughly. Almost instantly, the blue slunk back again, fading to his normal, pale complexion of which she had always been fond. Now, though, she couldn't stop gaping at him as though he had struck out at her – as though he was something dangerous – and she despised herself for it.

"I'm so sorry, Sif," he said, voice choked with his own fear as he reached out a hand to her. A touch of blue still lingered in the fingertips, and she tried her hardest not to recoil. "I should never have tried that. It was stupid. I'm so sorry. I did not mean to frighten you," he said, even though he sounded frightened himself. "I had no idea – I didn't know what would happen."

She stared at him, catching her breath and feeling her shocked heart rate gradually sinking back to normalcy. "Forgive me," she said, pushing off of his desk – against which she hadn't even realized she had been cowering – and very hesitantly taking his outstretched hand. "You startled me is all." Although that was only half of the truth.

He didn't try to pull her any closer to him, instead keeping his distance. "I am afraid, Sif," he whispered. "I am afraid, and you were the only person I could tell."

She had no idea what to say. To her, he had every right to be afraid. "Has this ever happened before?" she managed.

"I don't know," he said.

"How do you _not know_?" she blurted, only noticing how unkind she sounded once the words had flown from her mouth.

He shrugged. "I don't make a habit of shaking hands with Frost Giants. I usually let my weapons do that for me."

"So . . . this could be new."

"Or it could be old. We have no way of knowing."

Sif's mouth went dry as she considered this. If he had been born like this, it was likely a much more troubling matter than if this had simply fallen upon him recently. The likelihood of its recurrence was higher the farther back in his lifetime it went, and the likelihood of a cure of some sort was higher if it was something newer. "Perhaps Eir –" she began, but he was already shaking his head.

"I do not think that this is something medical, like an injury or a sickness," he said.

"Well then, what do you propose?"

Again, he shrugged. "Something magical."

If he was right, Sif knew he was looking at a much bigger problem. Very few people on Asgard possessed any measurable magical skill, and, in those who did, it was nominal at best. They could light a pile of tinder with a snap of their fingers, or something equally unimpressive to a true Seidrmandr. Loki was the best magician on Asgard, so, if the problem laid within the bounds of Seidr, and he couldn't cure himself . . .

"Ask your father," she said, unaware that she had even had such a thought. The words had formed almost of their own accord, tripping clumsily from her tongue, but spoken nonetheless. Then, she heard herself say, "He might know something."

Loki stared at her as though she had lost her mind. "My father. The man who fought the Jotunn army into the dust. Sif, if he ever saw this, he would just as soon slay me as look at me."

"You are his son."

He scoffed. "Perhaps it would do well to remind him of that sometime."

Pulling her hand out of his, she crossed her arms obstinately. They had had this conversation many, many times before, much in the same way that they had had Sif's nobody-takes-me-seriously-because-I-am-a-woman conversation. She was not going to get any deeper into this subject. She simply refused. As far as she was concerned, there were much bigger problems. "Even so, you said it yourself – he fought the Jotunns. He knows them better than most in the realm. There is a possibility that he could explain this to you based upon that knowledge."

He contemplated this for a moment, conflict playing across his face. She recalled his earlier statement: _I am afraid, Sif. I am afraid, and you were the only person I could tell._ Her heart ached at the fresh memory of his words, and she looked at him. He was so brave – he always had been. In the quiet, unknown ways, in the face of torment and tumult, behind the stares and whispers and sidelong glances; he remained resolute through praise and punishment, through golden thread, blood, and tears known to none besides she. He had always been second, in every heart, in every mind. To sit for centuries and _endure_ – Sif admired him for it.

At last, he nodded. "Perhaps you are right," he muttered, and she didn't miss the way he unconsciously cradled his hand – the one that had been touched and transformed by the Frost Giant – carefully, as though it was truly made of ice.


	9. Of Princes and Kings

**Again, we're operating within the first "Thor" film canon here. I still do not own...etc.**

* * *

 **Of Princes and Kings**

Loki sat on the hard golden throne, thinking and rethinking his last audience. He did not know how long it had been since Sif and the Warriors Three had left him, but he still was pondering all that had passed during their visit. They had behaved so strangely, as though they didn't know him at all. As though they hadn't all trained together and grown together and fought battles as part of the best six-membered team that Asgard had ever seen. Still, he supposed, this was an unfamiliar and unprecedented position for all of them.

They had asked that he bring Thor back.

He bristled momentarily at the memory of it, the gall that it must have taken for them to come to him and make such an ungrantable request. Even if he had wished to bring Thor back, he had given them a perfectly valid reason as to why he couldn't. The more he considered it, the more he realized that he didn't know which aspect irked him more – the fact that they had asked at all or the fact that they had argued for it once he had given his perfectly sound logic.

He thought briefly that there had been some mistrust in their eyes when they had approached the throne. They hadn't been expecting to see him sitting as king, of course, but – was he imagining it? – he had still been the topic on their minds, and they hadn't been thinking good things.

 _Of course,_ he thought bitterly. _Whenever something goes wrong, they are so quick to suspect me._ Even though he knew they were right to do so this time, it still irritated him beyond measure. Especially in light of recent . . . information.

He was busy brooding over this when the door to the throne room opened quietly; he looked up to see the Lady Sif closing it discretely behind her, as though she didn't wish for anybody to know that she had come to see her friend – her king – in private. She took a breath and turned, approaching the throne. "My lord," she said, bowing to him as befitted the king. "Might I have a word?"

The formality suited her ill, he thought, and he bid her rise. "If this is about my brother –"

"No," she said. "It is about you." He eyed her confusedly as she took a tentative step toward him, and then another, and another. "Loki?" she asked, gaze muddled as though she was uncertain if he was still there, hidden within the heavy golden armor and black leather and shining, polished horned helmet that she knew only ever came out for stiff, disconcertingly formal ceremony.

He just looked at her. He wished he could have done something to let her know that it was still him, but he couldn't think of anything. He felt a myriad of things, none of them normal, and so he would have been false had he told her otherwise.

"Did you speak with your father?" Her voice was quiet so that it wouldn't echo more than a rush of the breeze throughout the cavernous room. Loki had always felt so small in such a space. He nodded. "Would you be inclined to set my mind at ease, then?"

He was silent for a moment, a dull foreboding thudding in his head. If he told her, then she would fear him. It was quite simple, really. But, if he kept it from her, he would possibly deprive himself of any sort of release that speaking of it might bestow. Eventually, he said, "No matter what I told you, should it be true, your mind would not find itself any more at ease than it is at the present."

She looked at him as only she could. "You can tell me," she whispered, and he knew it. She had always been safe. A steel trap for secrets. "Good news or bad, the closure must be worth something."

"There is no closure," he told her, and he abruptly felt the need to avoid melodramatically claiming that his entire life has been a lie. Despite the truth of it, it felt childish.

She glanced behind him to ensure that they were alone, and, upon finding that not a soul – servant or otherwise – stood in the hall, she reached out and put a hand on his. "You can tell me anything," she said.

He stared at her for just a moment before swallowing and saying, "As it turns out, I was never from Asgard anyway."

He knew he had not given her much preamble, and the look of alarmed confusion on her face was exactly as he had expected it. Soon, realization would dawn, coloring her face with fear instead. He waited and waited, but no such thing happened. "You mean to say –" she muttered, though he could sense that she already knew the extent of things.

"I mean to say that I was never Asgardian. I was never Odin's son – or Frigga's, for that matter." He paused, taking a breath that he willed not to shake with revulsion. "I – I was born on Jotunheim to Laufey and his mistress Farbouti." There. He said it. So why did he only despise himself that much more?

She took a deep, slow breath. "You are a Frost Giant," she said, too calmly for Loki's taste, and she didn't trip over the words nearly enough. He watched her carefully, waiting for something in her face to change – to match the contempt for the species ( _his_ species, he reminded himself) that she undoubtedly felt inside. They had all been raised to loathe the Frost Giants, to fear them, and to avoid them; even speaking the word _Jotunn_ could inspire abrupt silence in a crowded banquet hall or make even the most seasoned of warriors tighten his grip on his weapon. Sif, however, only looked at him. "It does explain a fair bit," she muttered.

He couldn't help but blink at her, trying to make sense of what she'd said. "I'm sorry?" was all he could manage.

With a shrug, she said, "Well, you have always hated the summertime." He was still gaping at her, so she took a breath and continued. "You are the best sorcerer in a generally un-magical realm. The cold has never been an insult to you, and you have never needed nearly as many layers of warm clothing as the rest of us – even in Jotunheim. You . . . you look very different from most others too, with your dark hair."

"So do you," he was quick to point out.

She just arched a brow at him. "You, of all people, know why that is." When he looked away darkly, she continued, "The point is, Loki, you have been peculiar all your life, and now, you have finally got a name to place upon it."

It took everything in him to keep himself from snarling at her for that comment. He knew, logically, that she was only trying to make him feel better – to remind him that he is still the same man he was yesterday, and the day before that. But he couldn't stop himself from snapping, "When I woke up for Thor's coronation, I was a prince of Asgard. By that afternoon, I was a prince of Jotunheim. Have you even got your head around that? Because I haven't, and it's my struggle." He shook his head. "I hate the Frost Giants as much as anybody. Yes, even you Sif. Don't pretend you weren't reviled when I told you I was one of them." The words tasted bitter on his tongue; never before had he so badly wanted to spit out of disgust.

"Loki—"

"You know," he mused darkly, "I seem to remember a day, many centuries ago when we were mere children. You, me, and that oaf that I called 'brother' for so many years—we were playing a game that we called Aesir and Frost Giants. Because neither of you could stomach the idea of portraying a Frost Giant and I was simply sick of it, we three teamed up against a rather unfortunate tree." Sif remembered. He could tell by the hot flush searing pink in her cheeks and the wary look in her eyes. "I can quite vividly recall a certain little girl hacking away cruelly—mercilessly—at the tree, proclaiming death to all Frost Giants. Even long after her friends had stopped, she continued." He paused, stepping down from the throne to stand level with her. He hoped the accusation in his eyes burned her. "Are you trying to tell me that this same little girl grew up to harbor a soft spot for the Jotunn monsters? Because I would have quite a job of believing that."

"You're not a monster, Loki," she said. "You're not—"

"—not one of them?" he finished, arching a brow at her. She didn't say anything in response, only closing her mouth and staring at him with the kind of nervous expression that made him want to smack her. "I think it's time we all grow up and stop pretending to be things we aren't." With as much coldness as he could muster, he turned away from her and re-ascended the steps to the throne. "Goodbye Sif," he said.

He kept his back turned until he heard the door close again behind her. As he sat down again, he mused, "She forgot to thank me for the audience. Bad form."


	10. Of Visitors and Time

**Alright. Here's where it gets dicey if you haven't read "Desperado." This anecdote is regarding an event that occurs toward the beginning of "Desperado," in which Sif visits Loki for the first time in prison following the events in the first "Thor" film. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Of Visitors and Time**

Her footsteps had faded into oblivion some time ago—Loki wasn't sure how long a time, but, the more he thought about it, the further back in history it seemed. If he really concentrated, it felt like Sif had left him centuries ago. So he tried not to think too intently about it.

Instead, he clung to the memory of her voice. Her face, as beautiful as ever. (He could think things like that now, he reasoned, because he was—for all intents and purposes—a dead man with nothing left to lose.) He had even gotten to touch her. If only for a second. Her skin had been warm, and he refused to let himself forget what it had felt like.

With a sigh, he leaned his head back against the stone wall of his cell, memories of Sif dancing through his head and almost distracting him from the fact that he was in quite an undesirable situation. The dungeon smelled of damp and rot and excrement; the air was clammy enough to invite a chill into the deepest part of even his bones. But Sif had come to visit him, and, despite the hostility of their conversation, he let himself think in the solitude of his own mind that it had been wonderful to see her face.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, thinking about every detail of their encounter. It might have been well into the night before he remembered where he was and why. That felt like swallowing a large ice chunk.

All at once, he wasn't sure he would ever see Sif again. It struck him as odd that the idea sent him into a panic.

He harbored little love for most of the people against whom he had transgressed. As far as he was concerned, Odin and Thor both could pitch themselves off the Bifrost and into the untempered chaos of the galaxy before landing painfully in the realm of Hel, the lady of death. She would welcome them both gladly, and Loki would not even pretend to mourn. As to the Warriors Three…well, he despised them far less, though he hadn't ever missed any of them—nor did he think he ever would. Besides, he knew he could happily live the rest of his days without Volstagg's crude jokes (usually made at Loki's own expense). He certainly wouldn't miss any of the others—Frey, Njord, Bragi, Freyja, Idun, Rani, Heimdall, Sigyn… Actually, the thought of having Sigyn permanently removed from his life was entirely too enticing. If he died without ever seeing her simpering face again, he would at least die in peace.

He avoided thinking about the possibility that he may never again have the opportunity to talk to his mother. Yes, he reminded himself, she wasn't _really_ his mother. But Frigga had never treated him as anything less than a son. As angry as he was with Odin, he simply couldn't loathe Frigga in the same way. And Sif…well, Sif was the only other person he could think of whose presence he feared losing forever.

It had never been clear to him why he cared about Sif in the slightest. She had somehow found a comfortable spot right under his skin—settled in there when she was a child and stayed there ever since. He would have resented anybody else for such a trick, but Sif was not anybody else.

Outside his cell, the guards changed. He wasn't sure if it was noon or midnight. Or possibly dawn or dusk. He had not been paying especially close attention to the rotation of the guards since Sif had visited, but she had come just after the dawn change. He remembered that much, at least.

As the new guard-on-duty circled past his cell while making his mandatory rounds, Loki cleared his throat. The guard turned to him. "Did you need something?"

Loki tried not to bristle at the utter lack of respect being shown to him. Prisoner or not, he was still a prince of Asgard. "I was just wondering if you've got the time," he said, quiet voice carrying through the empty stone corridor.

The guard hesitated. Once he had determined that disclosing the time to a prisoner wouldn't pose any serious danger, he replied, "We just started the midnight rotation."

"Thank you," Loki said, and the guard continued on his way with a curt nod.

Midnight.

Before he did anything else, Loki closed his eyes. He had always had a very accurate sense of directionality, and he hadn't needed a compass to figure out orientation since he was a child. This time, however, finding north was harder. Loki blamed it on the enchanted manacles that stripped him of his magic. After a minute or two, however, he found it. Once he knew which direction he was facing, he imagined the moon's trajectory across the night sky. Then, he opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling of the dungeon and imagining the moon that hung in the sky beyond it. After losing track of time so grievously today, he wanted to account for every minute that passed by following the moon's path and waiting for dawn guard change.

Midnight. How had it gotten to be so late? It certainly hadn't felt like so many hours had passed. He wasn't even tired.

He thought again of his conversation with Sif. It had happened so long ago. Loki didn't want to think of what it meant that he had quite literally spent his entire day thinking about a woman. With a derisive scoff, he imagined what Sigyn would say, had he daydreamed about _her_ for as many hours. Likely something insipid and girlish. He could hear Sigyn's voice in his head: "Oh, Loki dear! How terribly _charming_ of you! I too think about you all day long; sometimes, you even venture into my dreams. This is a sign, don't you see? We're meant for each other!" And she would smile in what she thought was a becoming manner, nearly swooning at the thought that her _charming_ Loki had been thinking about her.

"Oh, I think about you, Sigyn," he muttered to himself. "Just not in the ways you'd hope."

Meanwhile, he hoped and prayed that Sif wouldn't suspect that she had ever been so heavily on his mind. He wasn't sure why, but he knew it would end badly if he let anything slip. He wasn't even sure what this "anything" was. It just seemed strangely imperative—it always had—that Sif never know that he actually cared about her.

He cared about her.

Quickly, before his mind ran away with that notion, he reminded himself not to read too much into it. She was his best friend—at least, she always had been. Of course he cared about her. She also happened to be strikingly beautiful. And perhaps they had shared a kiss or two in their tremendously long lifetimes. So what? There had always been some kind of extenuating circumstance. It wasn't like he _cared_ about her. Yes, she sometimes stunned him with a word or stole the breath from his lungs with a glance. And was it so awful of him to have actually enjoyed their few kisses? The fraction of their touches that had been less than innocent? It wasn't like he was in lov—

Footsteps.

All at once, his careful train of thought fizzed into oblivion as he listened to the footfalls out in the hallway. Any hopes he had vanished almost instantly; the steps were far too heavy to belong to either Sif of Frigga. Instead, he knew exactly who was coming toward his cell, and the realization did nothing to improve his mood.

"Hello, brother."

 _Damn._

The hulking, blonde-headed figure of Thor stood outside his cell and interrupted Loki's peripheral vision. Loki continued to stare at the place on the ceiling where the moon would be, silently hating Thor and the fact that he had called him 'brother.' Perhaps, he thought, if I don't respond, the lout will go away.

He should have known better. "Are you well?" Thor asked, and Loki fought the urge to roll his eyes. Thor had never respected silence. Even if it was a delicate silence or a comfortable silence, Thor had always felt the need to inject his over-loud, boisterous voice. He saw silence as an invitation for noise—much like he saw peace as an opportunity for war. Such brutishness galled Loki.

"What are you looking at?"

Again, Loki didn't reply. He just ground his teeth subtly, his blood boiling more with ire the longer Thor stood outside his cell. Finally, Thor turned to go, and something occurred to Loki. While Thor would be leaving him alone, it might sting the oaf more if his "brother" spoke to him, but only as a shell of himself. So, Loki rasped out a response: "The moon."

Thor turned back, and Loki tried not to smirk cruelly. "Loki?" he asked. He sounded deeply disturbed by the pitiable sound of Loki's voice. To be fair, Loki mused, his voice really was quite weak. He hadn't been speaking since he had been dumped into the cell, and his talk with Sif earlier had worn his voice down significantly. But he had thrown in a little extra gravel for good measure.

"I am looking at the moon," Loki said again.

Thor followed his gaze. "Loki, I cannot see a thing."

Loki had expected no less and waved the matter away dully. After a long moment, Thor seemed to catch on, however, saying "Oh." Again, Loki narrowly avoided smirking at Thor's stupidity. It was moments like these when Loki wondered how he could have ever believed that someone like Thor was his brother at all. The contrast between them had always been undeniably stark.

When Thor turned away from his cell this time, Loki didn't say anything to stop him.

"Loki."

 _Damn it, Thor._

Loki looked away from the moon, not forgetting its position, in favor of fussing broodily with his manacles. It had taken him a little time to grow accustomed to having his hands shackled, but now, he had accepted that the enchanted chains were as much a part of him as his hair or his fingernails. Still; that didn't make them comfortable.

"Have they been good to you?" Thor asked, as though he was visiting Loki in a foreign palace. As if Loki was lying on a velvet chaise with some beautiful woman pouring wine into his goblet. Loki repeated the words in his head, the sound of them echoing contemptuously. Really, he wondered, how thick could Thor get?

He cocked an eyebrow at the man outside his cell, slathering sarcasm and disparagement onto the gesture.

"I just meant that—"

Loki rolled his eyes. He didn't want to hear it.

Thor sighed. "Loki, you must cease this stubbornness if you wish your trial to be swift." He spoke with authority, in a tone eerily similar to the one Odin used to adopt whenever Loki misbehaved. The sound of it sent an angry shudder down Loki's back. Before Thor could speak again, Loki looked back at the moon, repossessed by the desire for Thor to leave him in peace.

"Who else has spoken to you of the trial?"

Loki ground his teeth. Would the buffoon never cease to ask inane questions? Truthfully, nobody had spoken to Loki of his trial. Sif had been his only visitor, and they hadn't spoken of the trial at all. But, when Thor started baiting him with names, he inadvertently blinked at Sif's.

"What did she want?" Thor asked.

"Nothing!" Loki hissed. Inside him, everything spat at Thor for simply using Sif's name, much less for asking him to divulge details of their private conversation. Loki wasn't sure why he was being so defensive at the moment, but he nonetheless felt that even the most innocent of discourses between he and Sif were intensely personal and therefore none of Thor's business. Loki closed his eyes, reining in his ever-growing ire. "Why have you come?" he said wearily.

Thor hesitated—and, in that instant, Loki knew he wasn't being entirely truthful when he said, "I couldn't sleep."

Loki looked quizzically at him, inviting the real reason into their conversation, but all Thor said was "I—" and, a few seconds later, he was hurrying back out of the dungeon.

Loki scoffed, leaning his head back against the wall and once more finding the moon. "Imbecile," he muttered.

For several minutes, he sat like this, letting his hatred subside and crystalize, just like it had been doing since he was young. He felt his temper ebb, the searing sensation within him cooling. Except for one thing that refused to be locked away with everything else…

Why had he gotten so defensive when Thor had mentioned Sif?

Like he had been thinking before Thor had interrupted, it wasn't like he was in love with her. They were friends. That was all.

Through his rationality, some miniscule voice in the back of Loki's mind noted that, even if he _had_ once loved her—even if he still did—there was no future for them. There never had been, really. Because, no matter his adopted status, Odin never would have allowed a woman like Sif to be with a Frost Giant. Even the Trickster himself couldn't refute that.

His grip tightened around his chains.

He hated Thor for mentioning Sif. For reminding him that he had no business speaking to her or looking at her or—Odin forbid it—caring about her. Everything he had ever done with Sif and around Sif had been nothing more than glorified infection. Playing together as children…those countless late nights walking back from the library…sparring in the training arena…cutting her hair…

He growled and yanked on his chains, furious. Immense anger tore at him again, and he hated Odin. Hated him for adopting him in the first place. For never _quite_ treating him like a son. For lying to him for his whole life—letting him think he was worthy of the sun and the moon and a woman like Sif. Even within the simple bounds of friendship, Sif deserved better than a piece of Jotunn vermin. And, Loki mused darkly, all he deserved was the point of her glaive, deep in his back. Just like they'd done with all the other Frost Giants.


	11. Of Snow

**Alright ladies and gents. This anecdote follows the events of "Desperado" (which contains plenty of moments that could easily fit into the compilation as oneshot-style anecdotes). In case you're wondering why there's such a huge tonal shift between this and the last. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Of Snow**

Back on Asgard, the love that Loki had received from the villagers was quickly overshadowed by the whispers of the courtiers. Those who had, for centuries, known him as more than just the second prince had surprisingly little good to say about his return.

While, in the beginning, his reintegration had been quite smooth, the longer he stayed, the more difficult it became. By the time winter came upon them, things hadn't changed within the court.

Very slowly and subtly, Loki had been deteriorating under the sidelong glances and muttered comments. Those who condemned him saw nothing; those who loved him ached on his behalf. He had grown even quieter than usual, barely eating and sleeping, spending more time brooding pensively than talking to those whom he hadn't seen for a long, long while. Even Fandral noticed and tried to extend a sense to peace to his friend; Loki didn't wish it, though.

Thor sought Sif out one day, drawing her aside after training. "Have you seen Loki today?"

She had, but not since that morning, when she had awoken in his arms. "No," she lied, running a cloth down the blade of her sword to clean it. "Why?"

Thor shrugged. "I'm worried for his welfare." He too was unfastening and cleaning pieces of armor, hanging them up in the armory as he had done since he had first begun his training as a child.

Sif eyed him as she removed her bracers, wiping the melted snow from them. "Perhaps he wishes to be alone," she said. It wasn't uncommon for Loki to separate himself for this reason, after all. Sometimes, she was an exception to the rule—allowed to be with him when he wanted to be away from everybody else—and she and Thor both knew it.

"I only want to know if he is alright," Thor told her, a note of imploring in his voice. "Do you know where he would be?"

She paused, and the cloth stopped moving over her shield for a moment as she thought. A moment passed, and she sighed. "I can find him," she told Thor, setting her clean shield in its clawlike brackets that kept it from falling over. "But I won't bother him."

He nodded, relief washing over his face. "Thank you, Sif." When she made to leave, he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "Please do not tell him I sent you," he said quietly so as not to attract the attention of the others coming to hang up their armor.

"Of course," she returned with a quick smile, and his thanks showed in his eyes. She turned and crunched away through the snow, heading away from the training rings and toward the forest. If any saw her, they didn't pay her any mind – a thing for which she was grateful.

The snow made it easy to tail him; he had, of course, used his magic to cover his tracks, but even the white quilting couldn't hide where the frozen ground had been touched by something different – something green and glowing. After all her time with him, she had learned his signature better than any, excluding perhaps her brother, who saw all. To her, Heimdall's sight was cheating. She would much rather close her eyes and walk along his path, following his footsteps like a bloodhound, not seeing but sensing. Occasionally she would lose the track, and she commended him for his evasive efforts. Still, she knelt in the snow, fingering the fallen tree needles, taking a bunch in her hand, sniffing them and finding his trail again. No, magic didn't have a smell; he did. Everything he touched smelled of him – ice, pine, snow, wood smoke, metal, cold, glass, cedar – and she could smell it on any needles his cloak had brushed to the ground.

She traced his path deep into the forest, eyes open, watching for a trick from him. None ever came. As she neared one of the clearings that they had frequented in their youth, she pulled up short. He was quiet – even verging on silent for a living creature – yet she could hear him breathing.

He undoubtedly had heard her approaching; the snow didn't lend itself to stealth without snowshoes. Around the edge of a rocky crag, she could feel him there, just waiting for her to figure it out. So she did, picking her way over the slippery, frozen stones with great care. An icy rivulet of a stream ran down the rocks in a tiny waterfall, splashing her face as she passed. The cold of it stung where it landed on her cheek, and she very cautiously stepped over the creek into which it was flowing, not wishing to get her feet wet.

Once on the other bank, she could see him clearly. He had shed his cloak, leaving it to hang uselessly over a bough of a nearby tree. He was lying on his back, the snow fluffing up around the edges of him like a giant feather pillow, making his clothing sodden and his boots weathered. One hand curled at his side; the other rested loosely over his stomach.

His skin was blue with winter.

He laid there peacefully, eyes closed, and his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm; if she hadn't known better, she would have thought him asleep.

She didn't get any closer, instead huddling within her own furs for warmth and saying, "You sure picked one hell of a day to play hide-and-seek. It's frigid out here."

"I like it," he drawled lazily from his place on the ground; he might have been basking in a ray of sun.

"Of course you do," she said, and the corner of his mouth jerked up into a tiny smile.

A comfortable silence settled over them, mixing with the tufts of snow perched on the branches of trees, pierced by a birdsong that reminded Sif of winter. After a long moment, he sighed. "It is stifling in that palace," he said, and she knew he wasn't only speaking of the warmth spewed out of hundreds of blazing fireplaces. He opened his eyes – red as embers – and glanced at her. Then, he turned away; she could see snowflakes clinging to his black hair, speckling it. She waited for them to melt, but they never did. "I'm sorry you have to see me like this," he murmured, looking absently into the canopy of trees that arched overhead – the sort of vaulted ceiling that he much preferred to that in the Great Room.

She stepped forward, fighting the chill that shimmied down her spine. She had only ever seen his Jotunn face once or twice before, and it had always been a fleeting thing. Now, she mused, as she worked her way closer to him, she could look at it all for as long as she liked. She knelt down in the snow beside him, but he didn't face her until she laid a hand on his cheek – frostbitten and colder than anything she had ever touched. As he looked her in the eye, she became numb to the burning in her hand as it touched his skin; she had never been this close to a Frost Giant before – never seen the depth of the reds and maroons and burnt colors in the eyes, never noticed the delicacy of the skin, blue as with frost and just as fragile. To her, they had always been beasts and war machines that deserved to be slain. She could hardly stomach just how wrong that notion had been.

He stared at her unblinkingly, awaiting her reaction. She admired his courage, retaining this face for her to see – to appreciate – and not changing back at the first sight of her. She knew he was expecting her to speak; remaining silent for so long gave a poor impression. And yet, she knew not what to say.

So she kissed him.

His lips stung hers with cold, but she didn't care. He needed this. _She_ needed this.

It was a short thing, just long enough to make him blink up at her when she pulled back. He didn't understand. So, she took the hand that was resting across his ribs, kissing its back as well and holding it between both of hers. "You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," she told him simply. "Do not ever be ashamed in front of me."

He stared at her in awe for a moment before switching his gaze to his hand, blue and icy and encased within hers like a treasure. "Sometimes, I just need to be cold," he said, still not truly understanding her behavior. "It never made sense before, but –"

She nodded in sympathy, letting the chill of his hand sear into hers; she didn't even feel the need to flinch. "Sometimes, I just need to be in battle," she replied. "That never made sense either, until I entered training. I like to think it was my essence, longing to see the light of day."

"I don't really like to think it," he returned quietly. "And I certainly do not like to let it see daylight."

"Perhaps not around them." She jerked her head back in the general direction of the palace.

"Absolutely not around them."

"But around me?"

He was silent for a moment, and she didn't like the sound of it. She gave his hand a squeeze to bring him back; "What would you have me do, my lady?" he asked softly.

She smiled. "Just be you, Loki. Whichever form that mandates. I shall never turn you away because of your face."

"And what of the others?"

"In time, they will be ready to see," she said, tracing one of the ridges that decorated his hand. "Some people cannot see beyond the past. Bad blood runs deep through the branches of Yggdrasil, as do bad memories. But, in time, all will mend."

"How much time?" His voice was little more than a whisper among the peace threaded throughout the forest like silver tinsel.

She sighed, looking up from his hand. "That is the bane of immortality."

A small, rueful grin hooked his mouth as he closed his eyes again. "I was afraid you would say that." When she drew her fingers over one of the raised markings on his face, he added, "That feels quite nice."

She leaned down, smiling, and let her lips follow the path her hand had just taken as she murmured, "See? There is some good to be found in this form." She trailed the line all the way down the flat of his cheek until she reached his lips, which she kissed once more – this time for longer. The cold was beginning to feel less and less uncomfortable. "Now, I really must be going," she said, rising. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, watching her. "I'll catch my death if I stay out in this for much longer." She drew her furs tighter around her, dusting snow from her knees. "Would you prefer to stay here?" she asked.

"I think so. At least for a little while, I'd like to delay my return to that suffocating palace," he replied with a slight smirk. She still marveled at how foreign that face was, wearing Loki's expressions with such ease; she thought it splendid.

"Well, don't delay for too long," she told him. "It is cold, and I have no desire to sleep alone tonight."

The other side of his mouth lifted to match, balancing his smirk. "Neither do I, rest assured."

She smiled back at him as she crossed the stream once more. So entranced with his appearance was she that she wasn't paying attention to her steps, and her foot sloshed through the water. An icy pang shot up her leg and she swore loudly. She could hear him laughing behind her.

* * *

 **A/N: That's all I've got for now! Again, this is where you all come in. If there's an idea you have that could fit into this series, PM me, and, if I like it, I'll write it up and credit it to you! Let me know what you're thinking! Thank you for reading!**


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